Tag: recovery

Jenna Jameson Celebrates Three Years of Sobriety

“Today is an important day for me in my recovery. 3 years. I can’t begin to explain what sobriety has brought to my life. But I will try.”

Former adult film star Jenna Jameson took to Instagram this week to celebrate three years of living sober.

“Today is an important day for me in my recovery. 3 years. I can’t begin to explain what sobriety has brought to my life. But I will try,” Jameson wrote in an Instagram post. “Yes, I’m not the intensely self centered ‘the world owes me something’ woman anymore. I am now the ‘What can I do for the world’ woman.”

Jameson hasn’t spoken extensively about her addiction, but there are reports that she was abusing alcohol and prescription pills. Her post was tagged #aa and #na, and she has suggested that she used 12-step fellowships to help her stay sober. Along the way, the 44-year-old said that she discovered new things about herself.

“Sobriety has taught me a lot about myself, my coping mechanisms that I ignored came bubbling to the surface quickly after getting sober,” she wrote. “That scared me. Everything I knew was wrong. Everything I believed in was hurting me, not helping. Meetings and leaning on my Sober friends… made things bearable the first year. I was surviving. Sober. It was shocking at first, but now it’s my new normal.”

Now, she recognizes that her substance abuse was an attempt to fill a void. “I think back to the way I used to run… run as far and as fast as I could, and I pray to God I never feel that emptiness again,” she wrote.

In April 2017, Jameson gave birth to a daughter and struggled afterward with her weight. Now, she has dropped from 187 pounds to 130, a journey she has celebrated on social media.

“My weightloss has solidified my toughness and strength,” she wrote. “I know I am capable of beautiful things and these are the qualities I want to teach my daughter. No matter what life throws at you, you can overcome and flourish. 3 years. 3 whole years. I am grateful. Just for today.”

Previously, Jameson worried that she couldn’t maintain weight loss while sober.

“I was worried I couldn’t lose the weight sober,” she wrote earlier this year. “I’m being real with you. When I was in my addiction it was easy to stay thin. Sobriety and being overweight was new to me. I kept telling myself if I could beat addiction and stay sober, I can easily lose the weight… and I did. The healthy way.”

Both weight loss and recovery have shown her how to tap into her inner strength, she said.

“And as of today I can say my mental game is STRONG,” she wrote on Instagram. “I feel I can do anything, I conquered abuse, addiction, PTSD and depression.”

View the original article at thefix.com

26 September 2018
Heather Locklear Addresses Addiction On Instagram

“Addiction is ferocious and will try to take you down. Recovery is the best revenge.”

Heather Locklear, the TV star best known for role on Melrose Place has had a difficult year. She’s been making headlines for her struggles with addiction and mental health, including several trips to treatment. Locklear is also currently facing a hearing on September 27 on charges of battery on a police officer and an EMT who were called to her home.

Recently, the actress took to Instagram to address addiction and recovery. Locklear had taken a step back from social media for several months before coming back in August, and several postings have touched on her recent troubles, with hopes for a better tomorrow.

On September 19, she posted, “Addiction is ferocious and will try to take you down. Recovery is the best revenge. Be kind to everyone you meet, your light just might change their path.”

She ended her post saying, “Rest in peace beautiful Josh. You touched my [heart emoji].” (It’s currently unclear who Josh is, but reports claim he was a friend of Locklear’s who lost his own battle with addiction.)

In another, she left a message that read, “Love yourself…enough to take the actions required for your happiness…enough to cut yourself loose from the drama-filled past…enough to set a high standard for relationships…enough to feed your mind and body in a healthy manner…enough to forgive yourself…enough to move on.”

In another post, Locklear shared a photo of the Maria Shriver book, I’ve Been Thinking…Reflections, Prayers, and Meditations for a Meaningful Life.

In June, Locklear was arrested on two counts of battery on emergency personnel who were called to her home, with Sgt. Eric Buschow of the Ventura County Sheriff’s Department telling CNN she was “extremely intoxicated and very uncooperative” at the time of her arrest.

After her arrest, Locklear reportedly checked into rehab for the second time this year.

She has reportedly gone to rehab seven times, first checking into a facility in Arizona for anxiety and depression in 2008.

She was later arrested the same year for suspicion of driving under the influence of prescription meds (the charges were later dismissed.) Locklear also reportedly did a one-month rehab stay in March 2017.

View the original article at thefix.com

25 September 2018
Me, My Psych Meds & My 12-Step Recovery

Now that I have double-digit sobriety, I have no qualms about pulling aside people who disparage the use of psych meds in meetings.

As I sat in my jail cell I had to question the admonition I got from an old-timer at a 12-step meeting I frequented.

“If you trust your Higher Power enough, you don’t need psych meds.”

Really? How well did that work for me? Prior to my psychotic break I wore my sobriety well. I had married the love of my life. My IT consulting practice was netting me a mid-six figure income. The custom house we bought and furnished was paid in full.

Funny thing about alcoholics. When things are going well we want to fiddle with the recipe that got us there. Why do I need meds? After all, I have been symptom-free for years. I have never been manic in sobriety.

For some reason the under-utilized abacus in my head couldn’t (or wouldn’t) do the math that me plus meds equaled sanity. That old-timer’s advice started to resonate. After all, I was a Higher-Power-trusting kind of guy. Never did it occur to me that maybe there was power and inspiration behind the development of the medications that kept me sane.

A salesman at heart, I broached the subject of discontinuing meds with my wife—my wife who had never known me symptomatic.

“I’m doing fine,” I said. “Just look at all these articles I found on the web about managing symptoms with vitamins and exercise.”

I closed the deal and by August of 2009 I was med-free.

All was well until it wasn’t. In November of that year my wife was hospitalized with COPD exacerbation. Talk about the need for a lung transplant and end-of-life-planning marked many of our conversations with physicians. Up went the anxiety level.

As the stress level began to rise, the amount of sleep I was getting decreased proportionally. Funny thing about bipolar I disorder, nothing triggers mania like lack of sleep. Or so I learned later.

Around January or February of 2010—the timeline gets a little distorted… a little racy—my response to my wife’s health condition was to pick up more clients, sleep less and work more. One of my clients, a large county government, went under investigation by the state’s Attorney General.

The subject of the investigation? The contents of a database I maintained.

The state wanted the unvarnished data. The county wanted it “scrubbed.” Stress bombs were being lobbed at my increasingly fragile state of mind.

Somewhere in the spring of 2010 there was an audible snap. Distinguishing the seemingly real from the false got a little tricky. Paranoia replaced anxiety. Clients began pulling me into meetings to explain why I was sending late-night emails about Russian cell-phone hackers and suspicious activities on the part of my co-workers.

Apparently, my explanations were none too satisfying. First there was a mandated two- week “vacation.” A week after I returned I guess no improvement was noted as the County Manager’s personal security detail escorted me from the premises. My monthly billing dropped by 75% at a time I was spending and gambling like, well, like someone in the midst of a full manic break. The bank accounts were drained and the credit cards began to max out.

My wife reminded me of a promise to resume medication if she ever deemed it necessary… and she was definitely in a deeming-it-necessary mode. Funny thing about psych meds, the maintenance dose that had worked so well for years really wasn’t up to snuffing out full blown mania. I resumed my meds, but it was like trying to battle a raging forest fire with a squirt bottle.

By May, loved ones were more than a little concerned. That came to a head in the aftermath of a pool party/cookout gone awry. For some reason I thought our guests needed to be greeted by the entire content of my garage spread across the front yard and folding tables piled high with $3,500 dollars’ worth of random magazines, toys, household goods, and an inordinate amount of Febreze from a 2 a.m. Walmart shopping spree.

Twenty-four hours later there was a late-night visit from the local police to take me to a 72-hour psych hold my wife and daughters had arranged.

Agnosognosia. A Greek term for lack of insight. The medical profession has reserved it to describe the phenomenon of people in the throes of mania denying that they are manic. I had it, but good. Four hours into my psych hold I pretended to be asleep and then put on a very calm front for the psychiatrist who had just come on shift to make the rounds.

By hour six I was released, and my wife and daughter got a tongue-lashing from the doctor for wasting her time. I delighted in that, but not once did it occur to me that if I had to consciously act calm, maybe things weren’t quite right. Life at home got a little more strained.

Five days later I agreed to be hospitalized. Then I reneged on my promise and decided to storm out of the house to underscore how healthy-minded I was.

As I packed, among other things, a two-and-a-half-foot tall Buzz Lightyear action figure, a cloth “green screen” for shooting videos and manipulating the background, and a folded American flag. I also decided to pack an unloaded .22 pistol that was going to be the centerpiece of a yet unscripted cellphone video masterpiece.

As I turned from my dresser to the duffle bag I was packing on my bed, my wife entered the room. The gun was pointed in her direction. She didn’t see a budding videographer; to her it was a little more “assaulty-ish.”

A half hour later, I was cleaning the pool at an unoccupied rental house of ours where I had decided to camp out. Not five minutes into it, I noticed a helicopter directly overhead. In my paranoid and delusional state, I assumed the helicopter was there to film me in all my glory.

Turns out, a very real S.W.A.T. team had encircled me and I wasn’t so delusional after all. My mugshot made the front page of our major online newspaper… in all my glory.

Over the next six weeks in jail my symptoms subsided, my marriage was repaired, and I got a felony assault charge reduced to disorderly conduct. (I really couldn’t argue that I had been a little disorderly.)

Still, I had one full year to learn how difficult it is to stay employable until that felony disorderly conduct was reduced to a misdemeanor. I am now very sympathetic towards sponsees who are trying to get back on track following incarceration.

You guessed it. If I am still sponsoring, I am still active in 12-step recovery. It may not be for everyone, but it works very well for me.

Now that I have double-digit sobriety, however, one thing has changed. I have no qualms about pulling aside people who disparage the use of psych meds in meetings. I share my story and explain rather firmly why they might want to reconsider that position.

I am also not shy about sharing in meetings about an article from AA’s Grapevine magazine published in the 1970s when groups were first wrestling with the subject of psych meds. The home group in that story? Well, it arrived at a position that still holds true to this day: If advised to take psychiatric medication by a physician, you should not take one more, nor one less, than prescribed.

Rick Bell, a bipolar alcoholic in recovery, holds a M.S.in Addiction Science and is completing a PhD in Psychology. He blogs at recoveryrules.com/blog.

View the original article at thefix.com

24 September 2018
"Dopesick Nation" Chronicles Struggle To Find Addiction Treatment

“TV is typically the domain of heroes and monsters and we don’t believe in either.”

A new docu-series shows the day-to-day struggle of finding help for people with substance use disorder.

The first episode of Dopesick Nation, a new 10-part series that premiered on VICELAND last Wednesday (Sept. 12), follows Frankie and Allie as they seek treatment for Nate and Kelly, two drug users in South Florida.

Frankie and Allie, who are in recovery themselves, explain the root of South Florida’s current heroin and fentanyl crisis—going back to the feds’ crackdown on prescription pills and the subsequent rise of heroin and fentanyl.

South Florida’s recovery industry is among the most notorious—people flock there to get help because it is “brimming with treatment centers on every corner,” Allie explains. Many are “predatory” in nature.

“I have family in South Florida and they started to tell me about this billion dollar rehab industry. It seemed like everyone down there had a finger in that pie. It was a big, dark, open secret,” producer Ian Manheimer told The Fix via email. “In my research, I met a lot of people who were making a piles of fast money in this industry. Their incentives weren’t necessarily aligned with those of their clients and it led to a lot of horrible things happening.”

The documentary follows Frankie as he tries to get Nate into treatment. He secured a scholarship for Nate, but they must wait for a bed to open up before he can be admitted. Until then, all Nate can do is wait and do his best to survive, one day at a time. “I don’t know if I can make it through another night,” he says as he is forced to wait longer than expected. “I fucking hate everything about what I’m doing.”

Viewers can feel the frustration of this waiting game. It’s clear that Nate is sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. He’s ready for change, and to be present for his son.

Frankie asks him, “Are you tired, and just done man?” Nate says, “It’s more of a mental/emotional thing, not as much of a physical thing like my body’s tired or my arms hurt, or I don’t have any veins left—you know, all those different reasons why people would stop getting high. Just emotionally and mentally drained as fuck, you’re like just done. It’s never been this bad before for some reason. I just want to have my family back.”

Nate’s experience is like any other individual who is ready to quit, but can’t stop. After using for so long, Nate is physically addicted to heroin. If he can’t get professional help, the only thing that will make him feel better is heroin or Suboxone, a medication for opioid addiction.

“This is a God-given opportunity. I’m not supposed to have this. And for whatever reason, I got it,” Nate said about the scholarship that Frankie got for him. “I need to take advantage of it because I can’t keep doing this anymore. This can’t define who I am. This isn’t me. Because I have more potential than that,” he says before he hits his pipe.

At the end of the first episode, Nate is finally admitted to a treatment center, and is out in 30 days. He looks different—healthier and happier.

Kelly, on the other hand, is harder for Allie to keep track of. She’s enthusiastic about recovery one day, but is no where to be found the next. But Allie, who met Kelly on her path to recovery, isn’t about to let go of her friend. “I’ll never give up on Kelly. Unless Kelly gives up on Kelly,” she says.

As the series continues, we’ll meet more young men and women at the height of their crisis, Manheimer says. “Maybe they’re prostituting. Maybe they’re stealing. They’re homeless. Allie and Frank will have to convince them, against all odds, to get into detox before someone else takes the scholarship they have lined up.”

Dopesick Nation is about showing the raw reality of people’s experiences, without labels or judgment. “We wanted to make something real,” says Manheimer. “TV is typically the domain of heroes and monsters and we don’t believe in either.”

Watch the first episode of Dopesick Nation here.

View the original article at thefix.com

18 September 2018
Sober Romance: Why We Act Like Teenagers When It Comes to Relationships

So many people rush into relationships in early recovery. This may be related to neurochemistry: we’re suddenly deprived of the substances that made us feel good and we need to find a substitute.

I’ve spent the last six and a half years of recovery wondering why I have been so emotionally immature when it comes to romantic relationships. Why have I sulked over communicating my needs? Why have I formed such insecure attachments that I wonder when I’ll see the person again before they have even left? Why have I felt so crazed and simultaneously flummoxed at my behavior? Reflecting on my relationships during my recovery, I can describe them in one word: disaster. But they’ve also been a blessing.

When I found recovery, relationships were the last thing on my mind; I could barely function. I spent most days struggling to sufficiently caffeinate myself to get out of my apartment and to a meeting. For the first few months, I lugged my 300-pound body around wondering where this elusive pink fluffy cloud was, because it certainly wasn’t on my radar.

As time progressed, my body began to recover: my liver regenerated—which is quite remarkable considering the quantity of cocaine I snorted and the four bottles of wine I drank each day—my depression lifted enough that I was able to function, and I lost weight. I was hardly experiencing the promises, but I could see that my life had improved. The fact I no longer felt compelled to drink was a miracle in itself.

Sufficiently recovered—or so I naively thought—I looked for romantic distraction in the rooms. A smile from someone at the break would elicit a rush of feel-good hormones. I wonder if they like me? would play through my mind (well, that’s the PG version I’m willing to share, but you get the picture). Needless to say, this didn’t end well.

I ignored the guidance to stay single for a year after finding recovery, because in my mind I was thinking: I’m a 32-year-old woman. Why shouldn’t I date? I’m an adult! Off I went and dated, just like every other person in the room because—let’s face it—few people actually adhere to that rule!

And so I chose some lovely chaps from that swimming pool of dysfunction, Narcotics Anonymous. Promises that they’d treat me right, and that they really liked me, were exactly that: just promises. Even though I expressed my desire for a relationship over just messing around, my experience was that once these guys got what they wanted, they were off. Wondering what was wrong with me—and playing the victim role really well—I’d move on to the next dude.

I couldn’t see until much later in my recovery why I was so terrible at picking a suitable partner. I was blind to my part in these encounters and all of the emotional baggage I brought to them. I’d often act like a teenager: sulking, gaslighting, and holding the person emotionally hostage. I was incapable of adequately and maturely communicating my needs, or of listening and hearing theirs.

It took several years of recovery to unpack my insecurities around attachment and the trauma I had suffered that made forming a healthy attachment nearly impossible. I can’t imagine many people would want a relationship with a needy, insecure, obsessive woman. And that wasn’t helped by my choices: people who were completely avoidant. It was never going to work.

Keen to explore why we act this way in early recovery, I asked recovery scientist Austin Brown about it. He explained that we have to look at our inclination to use external objects, or people, to provide instant changes in mood—just like we experienced with drugs. Also, Austin says, many of the social developmental benchmarks we pass from childhood to adulthood are slowed by active use.

“The early stages of romance offer a thrill and an escape,” he goes on. “In fact, they operate on many of the same pleasure pathways as our substances used to. One interesting phenomenon I have noted in clinical work is the almost overwhelming desire to get into a relationship that occurs when people initially get into recovery. To me, this is likely a neurochemistry issue; a starvation of the stuff that makes us feel good. So, we act on it, having neither the maturity or the self-awareness that is required for a complex adult human relationship.”

Explaining why we act so immaturely in relationships, Austin says, “If we started using as teens, emotionally we are still there those first few months. This is a well-known facet of the disorder. But we want—and therefore think we are ready for—a relationship, often before we even get out of treatment, have a stable job, or even have a place to live. Entering into any relationship under those conditions is statistically unlikely to succeed.”

About our inability to communicate, Austin says, “At a more scientific level we are talking about the ability to identify AND verbalize our emotional states. Often all we know are ‘want’ and ‘relief’ when we come into recovery. Those are woefully short-sighted emotional states when it comes to equitable human relationships and partnerships. It’s like bringing a juice box to a gunfight.”

The upside is that if we work hard to grow in recovery, we can mature fairly quickly. “I usually calculate about a year to six months of growth per every month of recovery. If we started using 12 years ago, it takes us at least a year to emotionally resemble our peers. Might even take two, depending on how hard we work at it,” he says.

Even though we think we might be ready for a relationship after we’ve achieved a few weeks of recovery, Austin says, we might want to be cautious. “Unfortunately, early recovery relationships slow our emotional maturation as well, just like substances,” he says. “If someone else can give us a sense of relief, why do all the hard work to achieve emotional growth? Early-recovery relationships prolong our process of healing and can often throw our recovery off disastrously, sometimes even to the point of a return to use and even death. So, it is quite serious business, and yet no one really talks about it in any tangible or helpful way.”

“Personally,” he goes on to say, “I have seen relationships in early recovery ruin more lives than substances themselves. Why relational health isn’t the central focus of early recovery support is frankly beyond me.”

View the original article at thefix.com

6 September 2018
PTSD Service Dogs Are Saving Lives

“If I could pin a medal on Aura, I would,” Evans asserts. “I feel safe in my own world since I’ve had Aura. She’s life saving.”

United States Army Command Sergeant Major Gretchen Evans’ life changed forever in 2006. This was her ninth combat tour since joining the Army in 1979. It was early spring, Afghanistan, and snow still peaked the mountains, but the chill in the air was beginning to shudder into the warmth that heralded the time for going home. One instant shortly before departure would change her homecoming from routine to medically urgent. While taking enemy fire, a nearby rocket blast left Evans with a traumatic brain injury and total hearing loss. She also suffered post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). Although the injuries sustained on that last tour in Afghanistan meant the end of Evans’ 27-year military career, she believes she’s had PTSD ever since her first tour to Grenada in 1983.

“You just learn to keep that stuff in control because it wasn’t okay or acceptable to exhibit PTSD symptoms while in active duty,” says Evans, who began finally treating her psychological trauma in 2008. Since accepting and addressing her PTSD diagnosis, Evans has used several different treatments including therapy, medication, and identifying her personal triggers. But one of her most helpful aids comes in the form of her faithful service dog, Aura.

Companion animals have entered the mainstream conversation in recent years as reaping a host of physical and mental health benefits for their owners. These boons include everything from lower blood pressure to decreased anxiety. Emotional support animals have gained popularity among people struggling with disorders like depression and anxiety. These animals are able to provide comfort, companionship, and a sense of purpose to some people who have shown resistance to other, more formalized treatments. Given the rising popularity of emotional support dogs and other pets, it’s important to recognize their distinction from service animals. Service dogs, which include Psychiatric Service Dogs, receive specific training related to their handler’s disability. We have probably all encountered a seeing-eye dog helping his visually impaired handler keep from walking into a busy intersection, for example. Emotional support dogs are less specialized and not covered by the Americans with Disabilities Act—which means you can’t claim discrimination if your therapy dog gets kicked out of the supermarket. The distinction may seem unfair for those who swear by their companion dog, but it does allow those with a qualifying disorder to receive highly specialized assistance. For people with PTSD, that assistance can be life changing.

The science on service dogs for PTSD is still relatively sparse. That which does exist tends to focus on the benefits for combat personnel, like Evans, which leaves little to no evidence for the use of psychiatric dogs in the treatment of PTSD related to sexual assault, natural disaster, or other forms of trauma. Nonetheless, there is strong anecdotal support of service dogs for the treatment of trauma survivors, and PTSD is now a service-dog qualifying disorder in the United States.

Evans received Aura free-of-cost through an organization called America’s Vet Dogs, which provides service dogs to disabled U.S. veterans and first responders. Organizations like these are important because Veteran’s Affairs does not currently provide service dogs for their members. Aura is technically categorized as a hearing-aid dog because Evans’ deafness is considered her primary disability, but Evans says the training Aura received for her PTSD has been life-changing after a series of false-starts when it came to her psychological recovery.

“In the beginning I tried excessive exercise…I tried meditation…I swam with the sharks, which is not really all that relaxing, and I did virtual reality…which works for a lot of veterans, but I had ten million things that happened to me, not just one trauma.” In the end, she says, a combination of medicinal, psychological, and community support helped her come to a place where her PTSD is manageable. And Aura.

One of Aura’s dominant PTSD-related tasks comes in the form of something that may sound simple to those who have never experienced a trauma nightmare: waking Evans up. This is a task echoed in the emerging literature on PTSD service dogs. The animals act by removing covers from their handler, nudging them, or even jumping onto their handler’s chest if other efforts are unsuccessful. This assistance alone is crucial, because, unlike average nightmares, PTSD-related nightmares typically replay the events or emotions of the trauma in such vivid detail that those who suffer from them may fear returning to sleep, leaving them fatigued and emotionally drained before the day has even begun.

Evans says Aura also helps her feel safe in the world. The combination of hearing loss and combat-related PTSD can leave Evans feeling vulnerable in public, especially in settings where she has to stand in line or navigate a crowd of unfamiliar people. Her service dog helps to alert her when strangers are approaching from behind, and to provide a berth that minimizes unwanted contact—all of these important for the reduction of hypervigilance, a common PTSD symptom that leaves sufferers feeling anxious, alert, and physically fatigued.

The biggest criticism emerging from the practice of using service dogs to support PTSD recovery is that dogs have a considerably shorter life span than humans, which could potentially leave an attached handler devastated by the loss. Though merely speculative at this point, this concern merits further research, especially when it comes to the care of survivors who witnessed or experienced loss of life.

Research on PTSD dogs is still young and much of the extant literature relies on self-reports. Like many aspects of trauma research, it has thus far focused mostly on combat veterans. It will likely be years before we have a large body of data confirming the experiences of combat trauma survivors like Evans, and even longer before that is applied to survivors of other types of trauma. Until then, we have the testimony of those whose lives have been changed by these animals.

“If I could pin a medal on Aura, I would,” Evans asserts. “I feel safe in my own world since I’ve had Aura. She’s life saving.”

View the original article at thefix.com

31 July 2018
Do You Want To Know What I’m Thinking? Me Neither

I gain peace when I choose not to suffer. It isn’t easy, but neither is being miserable.

I’ve got a big mouth, a lot of opinions, and little hesitation about expressing them—even when I haven’t done the homework.

No matter how long I’ve been sober, how many meetings I attend, how many times I work the Steps, call my sponsor, pray, and attempt to meditate—when I think I’m being played, lied to, or, maybe even worse, ignored, my default is still to want to throw down and battle it out. I wanna know why. I wanna be heard. I want the truth. I want justice. And I wanna prove I’m right, dammit!

I convince myself that I can convince you, and if that fails, coerce you—maybe even attempt to intimidate you. Not consciously of course—I’m way too good a person for that.

But I can be pretty scary and intense—in good and bad ways.

I used to jump without taking a beat or giving ample thought. Sobriety and recovery have tempered that. Now I force myself to take contrary action and pause—because wise people have taught me that if I really want to have my say, I’ll still want to say it later, tomorrow, next week. So, why not let it breathe and see if it dissipates?

I hate that shit. If I let it go, you’ll never know that I know I’m right. Or worse, you may think I think you’re right.

Hell if I do.

They say that doing the right thing is more important than being right. Oh yeah? How about on a math quiz? Not that I’ve taken one in a gazillion years. But I am tested innumerable times, daily—especially of late. Mars is up my Uranus or some shit, and years of program have eluded me more times than I care to admit. But since we’re only as sick as our secrets…

I was asked by one of my closest friends why I uncharacteristically didn’t return a couple of calls. I wondered why he had uncharacteristically made the calls, as I’m usually the one initiating, at least 90% of the time. (That’s a totally made up arbitrary number. I’m also a liar by default—only now, sober, I have a sort of Stanley Kubrick Clockwork Orange aversion to it, and bust myself almost before the words land.) I paused, as I’ve been taught to do. I rattled off all that had been keeping me busy. He pressed on.

“Anything else? You’re sure nothing’s wrong?” I took a beat. I heard my sponsor in my head reminding me to just say “No!” I was quiet. I said nothing.

He asked again. I knew better, but out of my mouth, without my permission or consent (aren’t those the same thing?), before I could stop, spilled: “Well, I’ve been kind of frustrated. I feel like every time I start to speak you interr…”

He jumped in… and… interrupted me. I shut up. He realized almost immediately and gave me back the floor, or, in this case, aisle 8A at Costco. I was already hating on myself for saying a word, let alone 17 ½ of them. To what end? It’s not about me—it’s his thing. Nothing is ever personal. I know that.

I started to kind of apologize for saying anything. I was actually ostracizing myself for opening my BIG mouth. He, on the other hand, supported my choice, and because he’s in recovery too, we discussed the value of keeping our shit to ourselves versus talking it out. He thanked me for telling him. For the rest of the conversation, I could feel him biting his tongue to enable me to complete my thoughts. I appreciated it more than I can say—but let me try. It means so much to me when I matter enough to someone for them to make an effort to alter their natural rhythm on my behalf.

Since that talk, every time we speak, when he starts to interject, he catches himself—both of us aware of his effort. As thoughtful as that is, and as grateful as I am, it manifests a big awkward elephant dancing between us on the phone line.

Did I really need to say anything? We are who we are.

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.

Discovering one of my oldest and closest friends had been in town a few times and warned his sister not to mention it blindsided me. Sure, our friendship had degenerated in recent years; where once we spoke every day—some days multiple times—and saw each other almost as often, lately it was occasional emails, holiday greetings, and a get-together whenever he was in town. Or so I thought.

On the day we spent together last month, I chose to focus on the now, based on our 40+ years of shared history. I went out of my way to make him comfortable; he was grateful and generous. We agreed we’d shared a fabulous time.

Posting about it on The Facebook, as I’m wont to do, then waking at 6 am to his sister’s flip comment about her happiness that he chose to see me this time—was like a hammer to my heart.

There was no way to pretend I didn’t know. And yet, he isn’t on social media, so I could choose to ignore it.

I wasn’t that recovered.

What stung more: the fact that he lied to me, what he lied about, or that everyone I knew, knew too? The line between ego and feelings is not only fine it’s oft crossed without my awareness.

I knew I should let it go—find peace with the help of my sponsor, my therapist, my life coach, my God squad—forget a village, it takes a city (a big one, like New York and the surrounding metropolitan area).

Without seeking grace, I found only will. Before saying a prayer, making a call, or taking a breath, at not quite 6 am, I sent him his sister’s words—regretting it before I heard the swoosh of the “send.”

He wrote me back immediately saying he’d had a terrific time, and was now sick to his stomach. He offered to explain. We planned a call. He forgot. Attempts to reschedule failed. About a week later I received an email. He had various and sundry practical reasons—it wasn’t personal, of course. Reading betwixt the lines (lines… we both gave that shit up a million years ago) was weed. We smoked together through the majority of our friendship. When I gave it up, I stopped being as much fun—to him. Why hang out with me and jones, when his other old pals still indulged and so could he.

I get it. I remember how much I hated hanging with people who didn’t get high and infringed on my buzz. I avoided them whenever possible.

I read his email, again and again, still smarting, still wanting to take his inventory about all the other shit he’s done over the years which hurt my feelings. I wanted to be heard, be right. This time I took a beat, said a prayer and found the courage to change the things I could. I took my fingers off the keyboard.

I don’t want to fight, or need to be right. I want to party…

Life is a party when I release expectations; when I don’t suffer the words and the actions of others; when I stay over here, on my side of the street and keep that sucker clean; when I let go of resenting people for not being who I want them to be, and remember that the behaviors of others have nothing to do with me—other than I may be an unconscious trigger.

That shit is hard.

Letting go doesn’t have to mean goodbye, the end, no more. It just means I’ll be loving on you from over here—where it’s safe—for now. I’ll stick a toe back in, try again, and we don’t ever have to talk about it.

I gain peace when I choose not to suffer. It isn’t easy, but neither is being miserable.

Yesterday I had to make a choice—because when I’m learning a life lesson the universe makes sure I have plenty of practice. I was asked—rather it was demanded—that I sign away all rights to my words, my authorship, and my copyright in perpetuity across the universe. In return I’d have an additional platform for my work, an enormous platform which reaches millions and would provide much-needed additional income. I’d already swallowed one huge alteration to my piece, done without my knowledge, which shifted my intention and my voice.

What to do? Accept the things I can’t change? Have the courage to change the things I can? I sought counsel from my city and gained the wisdom to discern the difference.

An evolved soul in the oft-dirty business of show, helped me to value and trust my worth, and find a spiritual solution. I chose to walk away; I did so sans drama, with a modicum of grace, thus leaving the door wide open if I alter my view—trusting an alternate venue and money stream will present.

As if on cue, as I was relaying my decision via email, I got a call from a wise, successful, generous entrepreneur, suggesting a business we could do together. I have no idea if it’ll come to pass, or if it’ll be the answer I seek—but I do know it’s a sign. Someone’s always got my back.

It works, when I work it—when I take the high road and keep my righteous trap shut.

I’m giving up my membership to fight club. The universe is keeping score, so I don’t have to.

View the original article at thefix.com

8 June 2018